A New One Lands in the Cuckoo's Nest

My library co-worker got fired.  Yes, it is possible to get fired from a prison job.  It takes a lot, but it can be done.  My former fellow library clerk apparently did not read his employment contract, where it clearly states that our duties include doing whatever we are told to do by staff.  Furthermore, he forgot about the 13^th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution.  On December 6, 1865 slavery was abolished with the following language:

Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, EXCEPT AS A PUNISHMENT FOR CRIME WHEREOF THE PARTY SHALL HAVE BEEN DULY CONVICTED, shall exist within the United States, or any place subject to their jurisdiction.

We prisoners are the “EXCEPT….”  It is often pointed out to us that we are essentially slaves.  They pay us out of the kindness of their souls and are under no obligation to do so. 

Within a day of my co-worker’s firing, a New Guy was hired (let’s call him that; prison monickers aren’t always clever).  I tried to prepare him for our collection of harmless eccentrics, wackos, and the few downright mentally unstable patrons.  But then yesterday an Old Timer wandered up to the desk.  I was busy helping someone, so New Guy had to fly solo.  Now, I know that this Old Timer slips off-kilter very easily and that it’s generally best not to engage.  New Guy did not know that.  What follows is as close to a verbatim recounting of the conversation they had as I can manage (I took notes afterwards), along with my own post-convo commentary:

New Guy:  Hey Old Timer, what’s up? (Old Timer is not an insult in prison.)

Old Timer:   I just need to staple my papers.  (He does this 2-3 times a week to the same stack of papers.  You can see where he removes the staples.)

New Guy:  Okay.  By the way, where did you get that Sony radio? (Inmates are always curious where another inmate may have acquired something not indigenous to the compound.)

Old Timer:  Well, I been down a loooong, loooooooong time. (Yes, he dragged it out like that.)

New Guy:  Oh yeah, how long? (First mistake.)

Old Timer:  Thirteen years. (You might consider this a considerable amount of time, but in prison 13 years does not earn you the right to declare a loooong, loooooooong time.)

New Guy:  How much longer you got? (Not so bad thus far?  Okay, hang on because here we enter the Twilight Zone.)

Old Timer:  Well, I only had an eight year sentence, that’s why I’m filing paper.  They kept me too long. (He just figured that out?  Five years later?)

New Guy:  How’d that happen?  (Second mistake.)

Old Timer:  Okay, you see I got mistreated so I decided to sue.  So I sued Governor Christie of New Jersey for $50 billion.  But they offered to settle for $2 billion.  And then that cop shot the kid in Ferguson?  That’s when Christie hired a hit squad to get me so they won’t let me leave.  (This all made perfect sense to him.  Why Christie?  We’ll never know.)  I can probably get out once Christie becomes President because he’ll be afraid I’ll blackmail him.

New Guy:  Christie dropped out of the race. 

Old Timer:  Hmm, interesting.  Maybe I should settle for $1 billion?  (At this point New Guy turned to me and asked, Did you put this guy up to this?  It’s gotta be a joke!  I assured him that it was no joke.)

Old Timer (turning to me): Well damn, see if I share any money with him!  He walks off.

So after I stopped ribbing New Guy for the look on his face, I welcomed him to the Cuckoo’s Nest.  He asked, How do you deal with this stuff everyday?  As I have said before, I told him you just have to laugh and roll with it.  You can’t make this shit up!

The Library Chair

I am a librarian.  In a prison.  I earn 25 cents/hour.  And under the circumstances, I would not trade my job for anything.  Definitely for me the best work assignment on the compound.  Why, you ask?  Is it the quirky cast of characters mentioned in a previous blog post?  Is it access to books at what may be one of the top prison libraries around?  First crack at magazines and newspapers?  All good benefits, no doubt, but what really makes this the best prison job is (drum roll) the chair!  Each day during my shift I get to rest my behind on what has to be the most comfortable chair in the compound.  Don’t get me wrong, it’s not some $2000 ergonomic masterpiece from Sweden, but we’re talking at least maybe high-end Office Depot.  It’s amply padded.  It has lumbar support.  Adjustable butt support.  It spins!  How did such a luxury find its way to the prison library?  I can only imagine that it was ordered by accident and rather than admit a mistake or take the time to fill out the paperwork required to send it back, they just left it here.  My back and rear end sure are grateful for that!

Because comfort is hard to come by in prison.  Our bunks are metal with a minimal mattress.  TV room and chow hall chairs are molded plastic.  The seats on desks are swing out stools.  The floor is industrial tile and the walls are cinder block.  Prison attire is poly or cotton/poly blend – I mean, the INHUMANITY!  But seriously, sometimes I go to work early just to sit in my wonderful chair.  It’s gotten so bad that I’ve even dreamed about this chair.  And if someone has the audacity to plop down in MY chair during my shift, well, it can get ugly.  After all, as we all know, librarians have sharp tongues!  But sometimes, on a beautiful 60-degree day when the yard is open for activities, the library is empty.  Then, I can lean back, prop my feet up and take a nap in MY chair.  Ahh, heaven!

3 Versions of the Truth

Flipping through my dictionary, I come to the word truth:  The real state of things, agreement with fact or reality.  Simple, right?  In prison, not so much.  Here, I’ve learned, the truth comes in three flavors:  (1) the Truth, (2) Prison Truth, and (3) the Real Truth.  Here’s my best shot at explaining the differences:

The Truth:  This category includes assertions (usually in the form of bragging) that may or may not be true, but are of little consequence.  Debating would just slow down the conversation.  For example, some guys are looking at car magazines and one brings up the Porsche he used to own.  Big deal, everybody just rolls with it.  We have no idea if he’s just made this up and we don’t really care.  Example Two:  Watching Miami Vice on tv and somebody claims to have lived there, even though he has previously said he was from Texas.  He does know the geography, landmarks and hotspots, so the story is plausible (of course he could have learned it all from Anthony Bourdain).  But no one cares.  Gassing like this goes on all day.  As they say, “you can be anything you want to be in prison” and as long as it’s not too outrageous, it’s no problem.

Then there’s Prison Truth:  These are the Yard Legends (ie, urban legends but behind bars) that are bolder, more audacious claims, but still accepted because they serve a valuable purpose, typically getting one over on the Administration.  For example, “I saw a guy smuggle four dozen apples from Chow Hall, hidden in his clothing!  He even got searched and didn’t get caught.  He baked twelve apple pies and everybody got a slice.  Next day the same guard stopped him and commented on his weight loss.  Dude replied, “Diet and exercise!  You should try it!” 

Now is any of this true?  Not likely, but we all wish it was so we let it pass.  As with the guy who supposedly faked having two inmates in his cell for two months to keep from getting a real cellie, another guy back in the day who demonstrated insane strength, etc.  Occasionally, though, we do take as shot at truth-checking, though our lacking Google, Siri or the New York Public Library Help Line makes this a challenge.  Recently a guy claimed to have owned the largest car dealership in Alabama.  Yes, he knows cars and a homeboy of his verified that he sold cars, but largest dealer?  Hmm, I could use my precious phone minutes to call a friend and find out.  Definitely not worth it.  So he wins this round of Prison Truth.

Now we come to The Real Truth:  This, finally, is probably what you think of as true.  The Real Truth mainly comes into play in arguments over sports facts, scientific information or some other clearly researchable claim.  You can go to the prison library to prove most of this stuff.  But sometimes stories are so outrageous, yet unverifiable inside, that they necessitate making an outside phone call.  Like there’s a guy who claimed to have been on Death Row until the President pardoned him.  The call was made.  A lie.  Now his credibility is shot and he can barely pass off everyday “truths.”  But then there’s this other guy, smelly and disheveled, rarely leaves his cell, who really is worth $80 million.  And what about the meek and mild bocce player who was a notorious gangster?  In those cases, we’ve got no alternative but to fallback on the old saying, “You can’t make this shit up!”  And that’s the TRUTH!

Death in Prison

A correctional officer (C.O.), prison guard, died over the weekend.  He had a heart attack at home.  I am sure he is mourned by family and friends, and I feel sympathy for them.  I am truly saddened by any loss of human life.  CO Jones was a decent guy, treated us fairly, and at times was even friendly, though he made it clear that he was not any inmate’s friend.  He kept things simple:  he was staff, we are inmates.  We’re fine with that.  We respected him, because he treated everyone – black, white, Hispanic, whatever – the same.  He didn’t do favors but if, in prison parlance, “you had somethin’ comin’,” he made sure you got it.  I don’t know his first name.  May he rest in peace.

Inside – not counting the suicide I wrote about in a previous post – six inmates have died of natural causes over the past few months.  I knew all six by face, some by name.  Some guys in here form bonds as strong as brotherhood; you know everything about them.  Spouses on the outside may support each other, too.  We are a community and look out for each other.  You live in a 7-1/2 by 10-1/2 foot cubicle with one or two other guys and you get to know each other pretty well, whether you want to or not.  These people who died were our friends.  Three were found unresponsive in their bunks by their cellmates.  The other three were in obvious distress. 

 

A dark joke here is that no one ever dies on the compound.  Somehow they always hang on until they reach the prison's medical center.  Old timers tell a tale like something out of the movie Weekend at Bernie’s of a dead body propped up with staff talking to him as they rolled him in a wheelchair to medical.  There’s a story about a body that fell off a gurney, clearly unresponsive, and a staff member pretended he had jumped off the cart and scolded him for goofing off.

When the prison guard CO Jones died, they shut down the entire compound for the day and held a Town Hall meeting to counsel us about his death.  The chaplain, the psychologist, the counselor, and an administrator took turns talking with us.  We prayed.  We were told that help was available if we wanted to talk to someone about the tragic passing of this prison guard.  We were asked to consider his death as a cautionary tale about taking better care of our health.  We were told to let ourselves mourn.

Now compare this to what happens when an inmate dies.  Every few months a hastily typed and scanned memo appears on the electronic bulletin board listing the names of inmates who have died.  It often has typos and sometimes even misspells their names.  No memorial service is held for any of them.  There is no Town Hall meeting.  We are told to stop saying, “they found ______ dead.”  No prayer, no counseling, nothing happened, so shut up.  The feeling is that we are not allowed to mourn.  The Administration would probably tell you that they are maintaining order, trying to keep the place calm.  But we inmates understand that the real message is that their lives mean more than ours.  We are not worthy of a dignified death.  We “got nothin’ comin’.”  

I can’t tell you what the Administration’s reasons are for what they do.  But after awhile perception begins to feel like reality.  In here this reality has been explained to me by a fellow inmate as follows:  “They try to take away everything, they don’t let you do nothin’ here, not even die.”